


desperate measures

by limned



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive Behavior, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 22:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13533849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limned/pseuds/limned
Summary: The clock on the wall says it’s only been an hour.  It seems like a hell of a lot longer.





	desperate measures

The clock on the wall says it’s only been an hour. It seems like a hell of a lot longer.

Clint bites off a groan and shifts on the bed. Every little movement makes it worse; his skin feels like it’s been electrified, ultrasensitive to the texture of the sheets under him, the scrub pants he’s wearing, even the air currents in the quarantine room. He’s been trying to hold still and take it slowly but the effects seem to be increasing already.

He’s shoving his hand into his pants again when the door opens and he jerks upright, furious because they promised to leave him _alone_ , goddammit, and then Natasha steps inside. It’s so far from what he expected that he can only stare, frozen, and say, “You’re in Tbilisi.”

She looks like she’s fighting back a smile while she does something to the security interface by the door. “Okay. I’m in Tbilisi.”

He’s hallucinating. That’s the only explanation for why she’s here, crossing the room and kneeling down beside him, her hands like cool rain on his shoulders, on his forehead where she presses one palm against it. “You’re way too warm,” she says, looking carefully into his eyes.

“M’okay,” Clint manages, still staring. “It’ll wear off, they said it would. Why aren’t you in Tbilisi?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” she instructs, and leans forward to kiss him. 

It feels like pure oxygen slamming into his system and he’s making embarrassing whimpering noises against her lips but he can’t help it, Natasha is here, she’s _here_ , everything in his brain is temporarily erased as she kisses him. “Wait,” he gasps, breaking away even though it’s against all of his better instincts. “Why are you here, does the team know you’re—“

“They know. You’ve got at least six more hours before the compound burns out. I wasn’t going to leave you alone with it.”

Natasha’s hands are moving, rubbing at his neck, easing along his shoulders. It feels so good that Clint wants to cry. “You don’t have to,” he forces himself to say, gritting it out. “Tell them our partnership is too important. Tell them you couldn’t, you tried but you couldn’t—“

“Clint,” she interrupts—patiently, which is weird, because she usually doesn’t hesitate to snap when she thinks he’s rambling. But she’s smiling a little now, wry and affectionate. “Kind of late for that. They were circling the idea of getting you a prostitute.”

He blinks. “And?”

“I offered to kill everyone in the room if they kept talking about it.”

He’s never minded about keeping their relationship secret. It was professional common sense, necessary and he even liked it; he felt solid and quietly smug that nobody else knew what was private between them. But this, he doesn’t think he could’ve predicted the way it would hit him, that she would announce their status so blatantly, holy shit, he didn’t have a clue. He has a flash of how it must have looked, Natasha glaring down the rest of the team and the doctors, _he’s mine_. “Oh,” he says faintly, and there’s a tingling rush in his chest that doesn’t feel like the drug compound at all.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” she says, lightly mocking. “Tony isn’t going to let me live that down anytime soon. So I’m assuming you want me to stay?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Clint parrots back at her, and it might have come off smooth and bantering if she hadn’t picked the next instant to slide her palms down his chest and he surges into her touch, moaning way too loud, trying to get his arms around her and drag her into the bed. “ _Fuck_ , yes please, please don’t leave.”

Natasha has a look on her face that says she’s thirty percent monitoring his medical condition, but she’s also staring in a way he knows really well, her eyes focused and the pupils blown wide, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. “I’ll feel guilty later for how fucking hot you look like this,” she mutters, like she’s mostly saying it to herself. She anchors one hand around his hip and pulls the drawstring on his scrub pants. “Let’s get these off. Why the hell are you still wearing them, by the way?”

“Cameras,” he gasps. The brush of fabric over the head of his dick is almost too much. “Freaks me out that they’re on.”

“I shut them down. They’ll stay that way, if Tony wants to live to see next week,” Natasha says, nudging his ass up to drag his pants farther down. They’re wet and sticky and he’s still so hard that it hurts, his cock leaking freely against his stomach. “Jesus, Clint. How many times did you come already?”

“Twice,” he says blurrily. “Can’t stop, it just keeps—“ and he doesn’t have time to say anything else before her hand wraps around him and he comes again, instantly.

Clint would laugh if he had better control of himself. It’s kind of like living out a personal nightmare: he’s always been slightly terrified of coming too fast every time Natasha touches him. This is the cartoon version of that, how she barely tightens her grip and he’s spilling helplessly over her fingers, groaning with his teeth clenched, “Harder, please, _harder_ ,” and his face is burning to hear how desperate he sounds, but Natasha doesn’t tease him, doesn’t draw it out, just strokes him firm and fast and his orgasm peaks so hard that every muscle in his body tenses, arching up before he collapses against the bed again.

The release is different from the first couple of rounds: longer, more intense, but he’s still aware of his surroundings in the aftermath. He’s fighting for breath but he can feel it this time, it’s not a scary disconnected length where he feels numb. The HYDRA records had been very specific that the compound was engineered to destroy unit cohesion by making entire teams screw each other senseless, and Clint understands that in a brand-new way. His senses are laser-focused on Natasha as she strips his pants the rest of the way off, every tiny brush of her fingers, her body heat, the gorgeous fall of her hair when he cracks his eyes open to stare up at her. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Thank you for not being in Tbilisi.”

Natasha smiles, the tiny smile he loves because it looks almost like her professionally seductive one—almost but not quite because this one crinkles the corners of her eyes too, and because he’s only ever seen this particular version aimed at him. “You’re welcome.”

He wants to thank her again when she starts to wipe him down, cleaning up the mess—he should be coming dry by now but he isn’t, and apparently won’t until the drug wears off—but he loses speech when she rubs the washcloth along his thighs. It’s a lightning-shock of sensation, his cock twitching stiff and wet, and he drives his fingers into the sheets and the mattress to stop himself from trying to grab her again, his brain clamoring that he has to _wait_ but his body telling him the exact opposite, that he needs her so badly he might implode if he can’t touch her.

“Stop that,” Natasha orders. She pries his hands loose of their painful deathgrip on the mattress and gets a solid grip on his wrists, and then she slides down and takes him into her mouth.

Clint doesn’t come immediately this time; it’s almost a whole minute of Natasha sucking him before he loses it, jerking up underneath her, Nat’s arms braced hard against his hips to keep him from shoving too deep into her throat. He’s distantly furious with himself for lacking that control but everything feels so overwhelming that he can’t register much beyond the glorious wet pressure of her mouth around his cock, swallowing, easing him down.

Two orgasms in rapid succession are apparently enough to buy him a little relief. His cock is still iron-hard, that isn’t changing for a long while, but he has a few minutes to breathe and not feel completely frantic with the need to get off.

Natasha slides back up and stretches out next to him, fits herself against his side with her usual impossible grace, lying close in the stupidly narrow quarantine bed. She watches him for a second and then leans in for another kiss, her lips shining wet; he can taste himself inside her mouth. “Better?” she murmurs.

“Why are you still wearing clothes,” Clint says. His head feels like it’s spinning as he manages to tug her shirt out of her jeans. “This is ridiculous, hurry up.”

She closes her hands around his wrists again, holding him off and he turns toward her, restless, already feeling the heat creeping back in. “Six _hours_ , Barton,” she says firmly. “We’re not hurrying any of this. I saw enough of the video they recovered from the research files.”

“Bad, huh?” He rests his head against her shoulder and tries to breathe deep. She checked the background intel; of course she did.

“Bad enough. Don’t rush it.”

Clint isn’t far enough gone to miss that one of her fingertips is resting against his pulse point. She’s going to be monitoring him until it’s over, this whole incredibly messed-up thing. How is this their lives, seriously. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He feels Natasha take a breath, probably getting ready to tell him to shut up, so he keeps talking fast, “Yeah, I know, not my fault, just—sorry. I don’t think I can—it probably won’t be fair for you, I think my coordination is fucking shot, I won’t be much good for—"

“Clint,” she says, and lets go of his wrist to wrap one hand around the back of his neck and shake him, gently and then harder, like an anchor. “It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah?” He sounds a little plaintive to his own ears. He’d probably cringe if he had enough focus left.

“Yeah,” she says. He can’t see her expression with his forehead tipped against her shoulder but he can tell that she’s smiling again. “You’re going to be hard for six hours, you idiot. I think I’ll manage to enjoy some of that.”

Clint laughs shakily and turns to kiss her neck. “Gonna use me, are you?”

“It will be a horrible burden,” Natasha says, dry as dust, and then laughs as he nips at her earlobe in retaliation.

She smells _amazing_. He knows the drug compound is causing some of that because Natasha always smells good but it shouldn’t be so intense right now. She should smell like airplane and gunpowder and too much hard travel but those are faint, nearly undetectable; instead the scent of her skin is so overpowering and _bright_ that he can barely think.

“Don’t let me hurt you,” he says abruptly. “Just—don’t. Knock me out again if you have to. Promise, Nat.”

 _I couldn’t stand it if I did that, if I hurt you in bed where it took you so goddamn long to really trust me in the first place, it could ruin us and I’d hate myself forever, please please don’t let me._ Clint’s mind is fuzzy and disoriented, and he wouldn’t know how to say everything out loud under normal circumstances anyway. They aren’t the kind of people who say those things, open and vulnerable—they’ve been vulnerable to each other in about a thousand different ways, but neither of them are good at talking like that.

Natasha’s hand squeezes tight around the nape of his neck, silent acknowledgment, and she’s quiet for a few beats so he knows that she gets it. Then she says softly, “I will. Now stop worrying so much. It’s a field injury, right? We’ll get through it, we always do.”

“Field injury,” he echoes, and yeah, he can latch on to that, it’s way better than beating himself up for putting her in this situation. Natasha’s fingers scratch lightly along his nape and up into his hair and he moans a little, arching into it. “Lucky the rest of the team didn’t get hit.”

She makes an amused huff of agreement. “Uh-huh. I’m not handling more than you.”

“You’re not?” Clint feels like his head is spinning again and his mouth is going with it, because jesus, he knows better than to ask something like that, normally she’d probably punch him, but his voice comes out plaintive again, needy, he can’t help it.

“No,” Natasha says, _you idiot_ highly implied in the tone. “I would’ve helped them to arrange the very best high-priced escorts that Tony’s money could buy, but you—” and she rocks her hips up against him, closing the careful two inches of distance she’d been maintaining, “—you belong to _me_.”

He makes a choked whining sound and shoves back, wrapping his arms around her, his cock a dense ache that he’s been trying to ignore but the drug is ramping up and he can’t anymore, her words are like a spark making it worse. It’s all twisting together and Clint wishes like hell that he hadn’t waited until now to realize that Natasha being _possessive_ would hit him so hard, exactly what he wanted—he’s less than two millimeters from coming, just thinking about it.

The fact that he’s naked and she’s still fully dressed feels indescribably hot and filthy, his body against the texture of her clothes, and then he jerks up and the tip of his cock slips under her shirt to glance against her stomach. “Oh _god_ , please, Natasha, please,” he moans, and she slides down the extra few inches to make it fucking perfect, driving his cock against her soft skin and the firm muscle underneath until he comes.

Natasha kisses him through the aftermath, both of them panting and he can see the high flush along her cheekbones when she pulls back. “You want to beg me for all of it?” she asks, low and liquid, and he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more.

*

They sent him into the unit with plenty of lube, a dozen large bottles, but Clint understands pretty quickly that it wouldn’t have mattered, if he were alone. He’s so hazed out that he wouldn’t have remembered to use it most of the time, and by the third hour his manual dexterity is so bad that he probably couldn’t open the bottles if he tried.

Natasha doesn’t forget. After he rubs off against her stomach she keeps him thoroughly slicked. He doesn’t want to imagine the chafed mess he’d be turning into otherwise.

She only lets him fuck her every third or fourth time. Clint knows he’ll be glad for that tomorrow, when his cock isn’t raw from friction and Natasha is still able to walk. The lube can’t totally negate a marathon like this. She doesn’t let him near her ass either, which he understands even through the cloud of raging lust; he has almost no ability to slow himself down once he’s inside her. Natasha has to do that for him and it wouldn’t be easy from any angle that involved his cock in her ass.

The relief is overwhelming when she sets those limits and enforces them—she’s really not going let him do any damage. Clint had known she _could_ stop him, her ground game has always been better and she’s fully capable of wrestling him under control, but he’d been more afraid that she wouldn’t try to set any limits at all, that she’d just do whatever she thought he needed, consequences be damned.

It’s another relief that the drug doesn’t make him black out. He could’ve handled it now that he knows she’s going to keep both of them safe, but it’s so much better that he doesn’t. Time goes weird and stretched but he doesn’t lose track entirely. He’s shockingly aware of every touch, every slick press of his cock inside her cunt or against her skin, the devastating flutter of her muscles when she comes on top of him, the rough pleading sound of his own voice.

They’ve played with submission from both sides before but that’s how it always felt, _play_ , hot and fun but not very serious. It never made him feel broken open like this. He’s sure he never sounded this desperate.

The hardest part is near the end. Clint can tell the drug heat is fading fast but he’s still rigid and achingly sensitive, still trying to pull Natasha closer. “Shhh, it’s okay,” she murmurs against his temple. “You’re almost done,” and eases two fingers back inside him, twisting deliberately and _pressing_ , perfect teeth-grinding pressure, and he gasps through one final wrenching orgasm with tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

She doesn’t let go of him until he’s ready and he loves her so much for it that he can hardly breathe.

He can’t move very well but Natasha urges him up for long enough to drink some water while she wipes him down again. It feels like he’s shaking uncontrollably and motionless with exhaustion at the same time. “Nat,” he tries to say, cracked and hoarse.

He doesn’t actually know what would’ve come out next, so it’s good when she brushes a thumb over his lips and says, “Nope, the talking is for tomorrow. You’re okay.”

“Okay,” he croaks, because she said that part as half a question and she’s still watching him carefully, but he thinks it’s true, even though he feels shaky and exhausted and like he doesn’t want her to go too far away. He thinks he’s probably okay.

Clint manages to stay on his feet until she throws clean sheets over the bed and he can crawl into it again. It feels unbelievably good to curl into Natasha when she joins him, wrapping around her and burrowing his face into her neck, because the driving physical _need_ to get closer is gone. He’s just doing it because he wants to.

“This is a ridiculous amount of cuddling and I’m going to make fun of you for it later,” Natasha says sleepily, but her hands are rubbing slow over his shoulders, up and down, easing him into sleep so quickly that he’s out before he can do more than smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly frustrating that my brain insists on writing nonsense one-shot tropes when two longer stories should be completed first, but I’m just going with it. No use fighting the madness.


End file.
